Lessons in piano playing
by planet p
Summary: Debbie wants to learn to play the piano.
1. Chapter 1

_2002_

"Loading zone!" Debbie intoned, over the music from the stereo, and Miss Parker hit the indicator to pull out of the loading zone and go back on the trawl for a free parking bay, frustrated and exasperated.

At least, if Debbie had changed out of her freshmint-toothpaste-teeth-white robes that she wore for her after-school activity, karate, but there'd been no time, Debbie had whined… and whined, pulling faces all the while, the sort that Miss Parker had forgotten existed (it'd been some time since she'd been that young and pulled such faces herself).

She wanted to get to the lingerie store before it closed. She _really_ needed a strapless bra to go with the sleeveless dress she'd be wearing to some social event she was going to.

Miss Parker made a mental note to ask what that was about, and what social event exactly, as she was waiting for a vehicle in front to pull into the parking space she'd been geared up to take, instead of cursing out the rat.

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the blaring music – hers, not Debbie's. Not in _her_ car!

Out of the car, approaching the shopping mall, Debbie shuffle-scuffed her trainers on the gunky, yucky-smelling concrete and bitumen. Quietly, Miss Parker wished kids wouldn't chuck _whatever_ that was to the ground as soon as they got bored of it/didn't want it anymore.

For all their hurry, the two girls – well, one girl, and one woman – stopped in front of the lingerie store, and Debbie's face fell into one of high offence. The store was closed! Bloody frickin' closed! Already!

A loud huff ensued from her lips, and a tinge of red anger coloured her cheeks.

"The nerve, the cheek, the moronicy!" Debbie growled, narrowing eyes in a hate-you-cos-you're-disgusting-don't-care-'bout-your-customers-at-all glare.

The sound of Ella Fitzgerald's _That Was My Heart_ had Debbie wheeling around, eyes narrowed as before. She made a yakey sound, and rolled her eyes in quick succession. "Shouldn't you be surfing porn on the net!"

Lyle stopped humming. "The distasteful youth these days," he commented, then smiled.

Debbie pointed her finger down her throat. "It's closed!" she complained.

Lyle dropped the smile, made a face, looked about them quickly. "You're not planning on a B 'n' E, are you?"

Debbie stuck her tongue out and shook her head, rolling her eyes to the top of her head. She turned to Miss Parker. "Are we?"

Miss Parker crossed her arms.

Debbie's head whipped around in Lyle's direction. "As if!" she breathed loudly.

Lyle shook his head, frowning at her attire. "You're a… chef?"

Debbie laughed loudly. "Another smart comment like that one and I'll karate your ass, boy!" she warned, pronouncing it more like 'kara-tay.'

"I'm sorry, you're going to do what with a carrot? Should I be worried you're some kind of kinky… schoolgirl?"

Debbie widened her eyes. "If you call exsanguination kinky," she told him.

Lyle laughed.

Miss Parker grabbed Debbie's arm and steered her away, without bothering to acknowledge her brother's presence.

"Catcha, sis; Broots," Lyle called to them.

Debbie waved her fingers, turning back to watch him for a moment. She glanced at Miss Parker. "He's funny. Funny, but cute."

"Funny but cute but murderous," Miss Parker hissed.

Debbie grinned.

"Believe it," Miss Parker told her.

Debbie's eyes got big at the sight of the department store they now stood in front of. "Aw, no way!" she moaned.

"Yes way," Miss Parker corrected.

Debbie moaned. So sucky, buying her lingerie at a department store! So babyish! She let her breath out. If it had to be, it had to be, she supposed, and did her best to steel herself.

If she saw anyone she knew, she was bolting.

* * *

"I neeeeed a drink!" Debbie whined, shopping bag with strapless bra inside in hand. She made sad eyes at the darkened food court.

Miss Parker half-shrugged. If it was shut, then it was shut. Same as the lingerie store.

Debbie tagged her hand, squeezing it with her own hand. "Let's go somewhere else! _Please!_"

Miss Parker sighed, but was cut off by Debbie's excited/triumphant whoop. "Maybe," she interjected, finally.

Debbie sung _That Was My Heart_ as they headed for the parking lot. She knew that tune, too, as much a brat as she was; she even knew the lyrics.

* * *

"Do you play?"

"Piano. As a kid."

Miss Parker refrained from toting her Smith & Wesson at the sight of her annoying brother sitting at the table with Debbie, whose chin was rested in a palm. She placed the tray down and slid it to the middle of the table, glaring at her brother.

"Missy, do you play an instrument?" Debbie asked suddenly, noticing her and taking her chin from her hand to straighten up, elbow still rested on the tabletop.

A slow grin came to Miss Parker's face. "It's called an S&W," she shared in a low voice.

"Never heard on it," Debbie commented, her eyes already on her drink, which her hand was reaching for.

Miss Parker shot her brother an extra extra-strength glare, before taking a seat at the table beside Debbie. What the Hell was he doing here?

"Can you teach me?" Debbie piped up, meeting Lyle's gaze. "We'll swap. I'll teach you karate."

Lyle smiled. "Well, I haven't played since I was a kid. I'd probably suck nowadays."

"_Awww!_" Debbie whined in disappointment.

"If you can promise me some investment, I might consider it," Lyle told her.

Debbie's eyes lit up. "Yes! Invested, def!"

"'Def'?"

"Definitely," Debbie decoded.

Lyle sighed and glanced at Miss Parker. "You think she's honestly interested?" he asked, to her complete surprise and chagrin.

He wanted her opinion – it would be 'Go to Hell' if she could swing it! But maybe not in front of Debbie.

"Yes! Yes!" Debbie cried, between sips of her drink. "I'll be ultra invested, I promise!"

"And what about your schoolwork?" Lyle asked.

"I'll be invested in that, too!" Debbie assured him. "I'm a great multitasker!"

"If your father allows it," Lyle gave in.

"Come on!" Debbie hollered. "I'm fifteen!"

"Exactly," Lyle replied. There wasn't going to be any arguments; if her dad said 'yes,' then yes, if 'no,' then no.

"Missy!" Debbie appealed, turning _unfair_ eyes on her.

"He's right," Miss Parker told her, hating that she had to.

Debbie huffed, kinda upset, and returned to her drink. She wished _she_ had a twin so she could gang up on _them_!

Her dad had better say 'yay.'

* * *

"Dad, please!" Debbie whined, whined, whined.

"No, absolutely not," Broots replied.

"Why not?" Debbie cried, face red.

"He's not savoury, that's why," Broots told her.

"I'd _kill_ him if he got fresh, you know I would!"

"I don't want you to kill anyone, and somehow I think he'd be the one doing the killing," Broots revealed.

Debbie huffed, rolling eyes. "I'm not even his _type_!"

"That is hardly the point!"

"But I want to learn _something_!" Debbie hollered.

"Then we'll look around for what's available," Broots responded.

"But that'll be _expensive_!" Debbie protested. Her dad was being stupid about this, Lyle would never hurt her because he knew Miss Parker would know who'd done it as soon as he did.

"It'll be safe."

"You don't know that!" Debbie argued. "You never know the creeps that are out there, or where they hide!"

"Debbie-"

"I want to learn the piano!"

Broots raised his voice. "Debbie, stop!"

Debbie froze, making a face.

"This is up to me, Debbie," Broots told her firmly. "You're so not old enough to make a decision like this."

"So just say 'yes,'" Debbie whined. "Please, dad, for me. Say 'yes.' I promise nothing will happen."

Broots sighed.

"Please!"

"Alright, but this is all. Nothing more."

Debbie laughed, pleased to have come out victorious. "As if! Like what?"

"Boyfriend," Broots said quietly.

Debbie shook her head. "I promise, dad! Not for another year, at least!"

Broots's eyes turned serious.

Debbie threw up her hands, grinning. "I'm joking, dad. Jeez! Like never. I'm comfortable with being celibate." It was a little bit of a joke, but her dad's eyes hardened only more. "I promise, he's not _my_ type, either. I'd never be caught dead hooking up with someone I wasn't hot for."

Broots turned away from her. He'd have to find out Lyle's number and they'd have to talk about it, he supposed, and he'd have to ring Miss Parker and inform her of the outcome, and Syd, most likely.

It would sound great, he thought. Talked 'round by his kid, when the guy was a homicidal lunatic. (Which _he_ knew, but the kid didn't.) Yeah, great.

* * *

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you really dangerous?"

"Yes, really. I earn more than your father; that makes me a danger to him; to you, too. If we should ever come up against one another… In that regard, you would be considered a liability, leverage to steer your father's intentions into actions, actions that would be favourable for me… and, of course, for you. Do you see?"

Debbie frowned. "That's creepy, and deep," she commented.

"When you're older… don't come to work for the Center."

Debbie made a face: an odd thing to say. "Why not?"

"No whys; just nos. If you start with _why_, you're going to get yourself killed," he told her. Then, to her sceptical, amused expression, "I'm very serious."

"'Very serious,'" Debbie muttered back at him, un-seriously. "Why did you learn the piano? Did your parents make you, like Missy's?"

"Like Miss Parker's?" Lyle asked. "No. My mother wanted to stay a regular in church; I… was somewhat more vocal than was called for." He frowned. "It… didn't make sense."

"What, religion?" Debbie made her eyes saucers. "What about now?"

"From my viewpoint, no. From theirs, sure, why not?"

"Sooo, how does this have anything to do with your playing the piano?"

"I _had_ to do _something_ that wasn't opening my mouth when it wasn't wanted," he commented.

"So you just-"

"I already knew how to play, yes," Lyle agreed.

"Because you'd taken lessons?" Debbie asked.

"No, not because I'd taken lessons; it was just like that."

"I wish it could be 'just like that' with me!"

"Don't."

Debbie frowned. "What?"

"Don't. Don't wish it. If it was, you'd hardly be interested in it, at all. It would be too easy, you'd not believe when you were told it wasn't so easy for everyone. How could it not be; it was for you?"

"I don't think-"

"It's _boring_! Not a challenge, at all."

"Do you find it boring?" Debbie asked.

He sighed, waiting for a long moment before answering; thinking, maybe. "Tiresome, much more than anything. It brings up things I'd rather not think about, in honesty." He glanced at her, suddenly. "You have that, too. With your mom? Things you'd rather not remember; things that aren't bad, but things you'd rather not think about?"

Debbie nodded; she was smiling anymore: she got that, too. "Are you going to play something?" she asked, after a while.

"I suppose I could," he said. "I've bought you a book."

"A book!" she huffed. "Why do I need a book?"

"It won't hurt," he told her.

"If I hit myself in the head with it, it will," she said.

"Well, then don't hit yourself with it," he remarked. "It's not really a book for hitting yourself with, in any case."

She gave a heavy sigh: sure, whatever. "Was your mom mean?"

"I'm not sure. She was… the same as anyone, I guess you could say. She had feelings; sometimes she did things because of those feelings, sometimes she didn't. Why? Was yours?"

"Sometimes," Debbie replied.

"Did you ever think someone had been mean to her? That she'd been damaged and she could only keep going by moving the cycle along? Repeating the same thing?"

Debbie scrunched up her brow. "Who would have hurt my mom?"

"We hurt each other."

"'We'?"

"People," Lyle supplied. "Not their fault, not necessarily; can't step outside of the ring, can't break the cycle. On the one hand, it's rather sad; on the other you can look at it from the point of view that, actually, it's quite pathetic. All of these _people_; all of them making the _same_ mistakes, time and again, and only dressing it up as something new, something 'Gosh, goodness, now what have you done?' More than anything, yes; yes, that is cheerless. Look at us, tirelessly: we've done this, we've done that. But what have we learnt, you ask? Your answer: We've learnt we're good at it!" He smiled.

Debbie didn't. "Can I see the book?" she asked.

.

She sat in front of the television – her father was watching it, she wasn't – her dinner slowly going cold on the plate in her lap, reading the book Lyle had got her on something called the Pointer System, for learning to play the piano or electric organ.

The flickering light from the screen of the television set was an annoyance on her eyes, but it wasn't that bad because of her father's habit of preferring to watch the television with the light on overhead, illuminating the dust that clung to the screen.

She'd have to give it a clean again on Saturday, she supposed, like she did at the end of every month, after the vacuuming had been done and the windows opened to air the room, when the dust whirled up by the machine had had time to settle. She'd use Windex, or something like that; from one of those discount variety stores: Everything 2 Dollars, The Dime Shack, Cheap 'n' Beaut (whenever she walked past the shop in Bay Mall, the staff uniforms always made her want to laugh, and she'd walk away with brisk steps and a grin she didn't really want: silly, embarrassing, stupid _mouth_).

She turned the page on her new book and glanced at it for a moment, before closing it and placing the book on the seat beside her. She needed to eat her dinner, she supposed. She was hungry, and it was food; quite possibly, even good food.

It tasted alright. She ate all of it; got up and walked to the kitchen for seconds, brought her dad back a glass of water, then went to pour herself a Coke from the refrigerator.

The light was busted; wasn't working. She made a mental note to check what type it was later, maybe after school Friday (no karate, nothing else). She could go down to the shops and have a look around at the hardware stores, check out the competition; which was cheapest but still reliable. (Maybe she'd ask Miss Parker to go with her, or Lyle… Her dad didn't get that stuff.)

Lyle could tell the cashier at the register in the hardware store about how he thought people were either a right sorry lot, or damn pathetic, and she wouldn't have to be the one he was telling – who _got_ it, even though she didn't want to, even though she did; how someone could see it that way, _why_ it was that way – and she could just stand there, vaguely embarrassed, but not _really_ as embarrassed as the cashier, or annoyed as the other customers, waiting.

Her dad wasn't really embarrassing, unless it was something he was wearing. He wasn't a ceaseless womaniser, outlandish, or rude, he was just _plain_. Plainness was his crime.

How could she be embarrassed by _that_, her dad was a _wholesome_ guy, even if the rest of the world saw him as dull as ditchwater? Her dad was a good man; he looked after his kid, he kept a job, he paid his bills, rates, taxes; he was never seen starting any trouble.

He also hated himself, she guessed, more than anyone saw by just looking into his face. He hated himself for working for the Center, for quietly condoning what they did by his outward indifference, but his desire to keep his house, his car, keep his kid safe, stay alive.

And for her mom, she thought, sometimes. Her mom, whom he still loved, whom he'd probably never stop loving.

_Eat your food_, she thought. _Read your book, play the piano. You're not Sydney; leave it to Sydney. Be ignorant, ignorant people don't hate themselves._

She ate the second helping she'd served herself, slowly sipping her Coke throughout, until she'd finished the glass and stood with her plate – dad's plate – and her glass, to deposit of the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink was washing up, and pouring herself a glass of water.

In the kitchen, it was cooler than the lounge room. Window was open, no wonder. She poured herself some water from the kitchen tap; it was cold when she drank it.

She put on the hot water tap and started filling the sink with water. After she'd fixed up the dishes, she'd read some more of her book, and probably go to bed after that.

When the sink had filled sufficiently, not right to the top (they were conserving water for the environment), she filled the corded electric kettle under the tap and plugged it in, hitting the 'on' switch at the power point and then, on the kettle, to heat the water for coffee.

Her dad would like a coffee, and she wouldn't mind one once she'd done the dishes. It would help her relax, with a bit of sugar. (Something warm in her stomach.)

She shut the kitchen window; it was too cold; the neighbour was playing something distasteful over the stereo; the flywire screen wasn't the best, it'd certainly seen better days.

Goosebumps came up on her arms and slowly went away again as she dunked her hands into warm water to wash dishes; the television clattered from the other room, along with clunking dishes; she imagined a piano, playing quietly, neither overstated nor under.

She promised herself that she was going to learn to play the piano, in time, but maybe she'd work on her homework tonight instead. She'd made a promise about that, too.

_It's your homework that's important, that's the _important_ thing_, she reminded herself,_ not the piano, that's just your, _Yeah, it's something I can do to wind down that isn't necessarily karate. I don't even have to dream about ever hurting anyone with a _piano_; I can be plain, I won't have to hate myself for playing the piano.

The dishes clinked. Her hands felt soggy and waterlogged. She'd forgotten the coffee; she'd have to reheat the water; put the kettle on again.

_Dry your hands first_, she thought.

She dried her hands on a handtowel and walked across the room to put the kettle on again. She'd wait for it to finish, then put a coffee on to brew. Then, she wouldn't forget.

.

Before bed, she rang Miss Parker up to say 'goodnight.' Sometimes she did; her dad didn't mind, he didn't tell her not too: it wasn't late. Not late late. Eleven thirty.

She'd done her homework; the coffee had helped her to stay alert, a little bit.

She told Miss Parker about the book – her dad knew, already – she'd considered keeping it between herself, her dad, and Lyle, but, she supposed, why not tell Miss Parker? Maybe she'd be like: _Well, look; he's getting you things. What'll it be next?_ But Debbie wouldn't buy into it.

Why should she? She knew it wasn't that sort of thing thing.

Miss Parker didn't make anything of it; she said 'goodnight,' that was the extent of it.

Debbie hung up, put the phone back; said 'night' to her dad, and walked back to her bedroom. Her feet were cold, even through her socks; the floor was hard, old carpet.

She really didn't want to know what anyone would say about that, least of all Lyle. Old carpet was bad because it gave off harmful carpet fibres and harboured harmful little microscopic things!

With what money, she would only reply, should we buy new carpets? Pull another one, alright!

Miss Parker didn't like the carpet, either. Debbie had once heard her say so to her dad: Can't you do something about this carpet? It's dull in the extreme.

Maybe pull it up when I get some time, her dad had replied, but then what? It'd be expensive to have the boards polished, if they're still good enough for it, and then that's, what, more chemicals brought into the house, more chemicals that can sink into the walls. I can't afford vinyl or any of those laminates, dull is going to have to do, I'm afraid, at least until I win the lottery. Do you think I'm jumping for joy when I come home each night? Do you think Debbie is? Not one of us, but we're alive, so far. There are worse things than dull in the world, there are injustices.

And that's where her dad had lost Miss Parker, Debbie supposed, and where he'd stopped. He'd read her look very well: _What are these strange words, strange notions? Coming from someone, whom though I've known them for years, I've never really taken the time to get to know. It's all too strange, totally bizarre._ He'd felt fear. Better be plain, better not strike out; it only strikes you back, doubly as hard.

She felt bad for her dad. He wasn't a bad person, but he was caught in this bad situation, and he had no way of being anything but a bad person, for it, of being _seen_ as anything else, of seeing _himself_ as anything else.

_I believe in you_, she wanted to add, sometimes, after 'goodnight.' But she never did; just never had.

She changed into her pyjamas; she always took her showers in the mornings, to wake herself up. She lay down in her bed; her mattress was cold, but not as cold as her feet.

_Now sleep_, she told herself. _Come on, just sleep. You'll warm up under the blanket, so go to sleep. It's time to sleep now, not to think about things you'll never be able to change. Think about them in the day, not now, not when it's bedtime._

_Goodnight, Sydney; goodnight, Sam; goodnight, mom._

She closed her eyes.

* * *

**Sorry for it being so dull. Thanks for reading.**


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